To Catch a Ghost
by Super Widget
Summary: Sequel to Game Changer. Post Reichenbach. Samantha is offered work by someone whom she thought to be dead. After the events of last year, can she trust him not to double-cross her? Moriarty/OC.
1. The Russian

_**Author's Note: Hi folks! Yeah, I'm back…for now. I was considering a sequel for Game Changer for a while and this scene was just stuck in my head so I had to get it out. Hope you all enjoy =)**_

It was snowing in Stockholm. The street lights glowed warm gold across the city. Samantha admired the view through the bay window of a two-story café. The clink of cutlery and murmur of other customers permeated the background like radio static. She would have been perfectly content here if she were not working. Since the events of last year and her dealings with Moriarty, Samantha had been in the proverbial dog house with her employer. Thoughts of work and Moriarty rarely strayed from her mind, particularly when she was trying to sleep or relax in general. She needed a holiday for the sake of her sanity.

A tall woman joined her at the table sitting across from her. She was somewhere in her forties and had a lean upper body, sharp features with cat-like blue-green eyes, and dark blonde hair pulled back in a French braid.

"Sorry about that," she spoke in a strong Russian accent, "Some days I just want to burn my phone. It never rings but at times inappropriate."

"I take it I have your full attention then?" Samantha replied politely.

"Certainly," the woman replied with a patronizing smile.

A waitress appeared then with two coffees, placing the hazelnut mocha with whipped cream in front of Samantha. Her line of work meant she needed to keep trim but she indulged whenever the opportunity arose.

"Tack sa mycket," she said to the waitress handing her some money, "Halla andringen."

The waitress thanked her for her generous tip and returned to her shift.

"Now, then," Samantha glanced back at her companion, "Nika Abramovich. Your name keeps popping up wherever I go. You're quite a person of interest to my employer."

Abramovich made an expression of surprised amusement.

"I'm not very interesting," she replied dismissively, "I'm just a single Russian woman travelling Europe. Nothing interesting unless you're into tourism."

"Don't be so modest," Samantha cooed. She sipped her mocha before pulling out her tablet and opening the files she had on Abramovich.

"The log of your travels my employer compiled is incredibly intriguing. For example-" Samantha tilted the tablet so that the woman could see,

"Here's a picture of you with a VKS 12.7 sniper rifle. Here's another one of you chatting to one of the most wanted organized crime leaders in central Europe. And then there was that little bombing in Afghanistan just as you happened to be flying out of the country. Care to regale your own tales of misadventure?" She brought her drink to her lips again, studying the Russian woman opposite. She was an exceptional gun-for-hire. The agency needed her for her talents.

"I think you've heard them all," Abramovich replied deadpan.

"I think I have," Samantha replied, "The thing is, you've been just a teensy bit sloppy. The authorities have your scent. They're closing in on you."

"That is not possible," the woman retorted and then with some consideration, "You are not authority?"

"No," Samantha answered. She paused a moment, feeling a mild headache coming on. "I'm here to offer you a job contract."

"I have a job," the woman replied in disinterest. Samantha sighed. This was the problem with most criminals. They were so distrustful.

"A permanent one," she added, "No more waiting around for a phone call from whoever happens to pick up your CV."  
Abramovich leaned forward, her elbows on the table.

"It _is_ permanent," she replied, her voice low, narrow eyes showing mild annoyance.

"With us you'll have full immunity," Samantha said jovially, trying to ignore her headache, "Evidence of your existence on any official documentation will be erased. You won't have to fear being placed behind bars."

"I can't leave my current employer," the woman replied simply, leaning back in her chair again.  
Samantha rubbed the side of her head, the pain slowly increasing.

"Oh, we'll take care of that," she said.

"No, he will find me and he will kill me. And then he will more than likely kill you too."

"And who exactly…" Samantha shut her eyes tight, the pressure building in her skull, "is your employer?"

"Are you alright?" the Russian enquired.

"Just a headache," she responded, "As I was saying…" Samantha shook her head. What was she saying?

"The contract…" the rest of the sentence failed to materialise in her brain. She couldn't focus. Her vision began to blur. Something tugged at the recess of her mind like some distant alarm bell. Her gaze snapped to the Russian woman who was watching her, lips stretched tight as if suppressing a smile.

"What did you put in my…?" But Samantha had lost consciousness before she could finish the sentence.


	2. Back from the Dead

Music - the tinkling of a piano was the first sound that drifted through Samantha's consciousness. She recognised the piece but her fogged brain failed to find the composer's name. Her head hurt. She wanted to fall back asleep but a sense of urgency tugged at the back of her mind, clambering from beneath the oppression of the drug that kept her under. Her eyes peeled open and for a moment she lay there waiting for her visual cortex to make sense of her surroundings. She was lying on a cold granite floor. Her neck was stiff from lack of support. She rolled on her back and squinted as a single bright light bulb shone down on her. She moved back on her side and squeezed her eyes shut again, feeling nauseous from the spots that sparkled beneath her eyelids. God, she wanted to sleep.

There was a clang of metal and the sound of hinges groaning. Someone had entered the room. Footsteps stopped next to her. She remained still, hoping the intruder would assume she were still asleep.

"Wakey, _wakey_," a voice sang.

_That voice!_

Samantha dismissed her instinct immediately. It wasn't him, it couldn't be.

A hand clutched her chin, turning her head this way and that. She grunted and yanked her head back, irritated by the rough handling. She opened her eyes. Half blinded by the light, she could only see a silhouette of her host. She noticed the music was still playing and as she turned her head to the source of the sound she realised there was a speaker hanging from the upper corner of the room.

"Chopin," she murmured, her brain finally waking up.

"Oh, good! You're not brain damaged. Was worried there for a moment. Nika can be rough when she wants to be."

"What?" Samantha mumbled, raising herself on her elbows and trying to make sense of her situation. She appeared to be in some sort of cell. The walls and floor were made of granite and the door was heavy iron. Apart from the speaker and the light bulb there were no other objects in the room.

_Nika_.

The Russian woman. She spiked her coffee. Why did she bring her here?

Her cellmate sat on the ground against the wall opposite her. She studied his features for a moment, her brain lazily putting a name to the face. She shook her head.

"You're dead," she said dismissively, clearly still under the influence of the drug.

"I've been getting that a lot lately."

"No," she insisted, "I _saw _you die."

He sighed heavily.

"Look, you can dither over whether or not I'm a figment of your imagination all you like, it's not going to make me go away."

Different emotions swilled in her mind. She didn't know whether to be happy or angry or indifferent. She never thought she'd see him again.

"Moriarty?" she whispered, her incredulity pitching the tone of her voice.

"_Surprise_!"

Samantha sat up. She still felt a little weak and groggy but her mind was starting to clear and her attention was fully on the man before her. He hadn't changed a bit, still sharply dressed, still wearing that smug grin. Looking at him now it was hard to believe she had watched him put a bullet in his brain almost a year ago.

"You're a hard woman to find," he said matter-of-factly, "Poor Nika had to get herself into all sorts of trouble before she could gain your attention."

"So _you're _the employer she was babbling on about," she grumbled mostly to herself.

"Well this won't do," Moriarty sulked, "I thought you'd be more happy to see me. I mean it's been a while. How have you been?"

"Oh, you know, just through hell and back," Samantha said sarcastically, angry now, "I was almost fired because of you. Instead, I was suspended for two weeks without pay in which I had to endure hours of training and therapy programmes. I now have restricted access to the agency and I can't do anything outside of obeying orders. So thanks for that. How have you been? You don't seem the worse for wear having blown your own brains out."

Moriarty seemed amused at her little outburst which irritated her all the more.

"I put on a good show, didn't I?" he said, "If it helps, you were _supposed _to think that I was dead. I couldn't continue working if you constantly had your nose in my operations, now could I? Alas, I find myself in a difficult situation at the moment and you're the only one I can think of that can help me."

"Go fuck yourself," she quipped politely.

"And here I thought you were a classy lady."

She sighed inwardly. Before, she might have enjoyed the back-and-forth banter with Moriarty. Right now, his assumption that she would cooperate was grating. The fact that he went through the effort of bringing her here was enough reason to want to leave. If she wasn't still weak from the drug, she would have found a way out by now.

"So, what?" she said tiredly, "You get all the girls to do your dirty work now?"

"Trust me, my dear, if I could do this all by my lonesome, I would," Moriarty replied sounding a little patronizing, "But I am in a tight spot and I can't afford to stick my neck out lest I have my head removed."

"So what do you want?" Samantha didn't really care. She was just making conversation while the drugs were wearing off.

"Sherlock is alive."

There was a pregnant silence.

Samantha replayed the moment on the rooftop over in her head. She saw Sherlock fall…didn't she?

"That's not possible," she dismissed.

"I know. His fake death was more impressive than my fake death," Moriarty stated bitterly.

"No, I mean I _saw _him fall. He hit the pavement. There was blood everywhere. No one could have survived that."

"He didn't _'survive' _anything," Moriarty said with a tut, "I know because there's no body. And if there's no body he's still alive."

Samantha shot him a look.

"You dug up his grave?" she cried, appalled by the notion.

"If he's still alive," he continued solemnly, "it means he knows I'm alive and is looking for me."

"Ok, just…hold on a second," Samantha said, trying to grasp the situation. She shifted her weight, resting her nose on her steepled fingers. "So you fake killed yourself _knowing _you couldn't fool Sherlock?"

"Well of course I couldn't fool Sherlock. The man is far from stupid," Moriarty replied, "But I had to fool my clients who had all of Sherlock's friends within their crosshairs. I had to let him know that there was no way I was calling them off."

Samantha groaned. She really shouldn't have expected anything less from this man.

"So you dug up the grave of the guy who killed himself to save his friends," she stated.

"Oh please, are you really going to give a morality lecture to _me _of all people?"

His mouth was curled in a smug smile. Had she her full strength, she would have slapped that grin right off his face.

"And let me guess," she said loudly, over emphasising her annoyance, "You want _me _to find him."

"Ding, ding, ding!"

"Well find your detective yourself," she grumbled, lying back down on the floor, "I don't owe you any favours."

Moriarty stood then and left something on the floor next to her.

"I'm sure you'll find some incentive if you try hard enough," he said.

The object he left down was a seven inch screen. A room similar to the one Samantha was in was displaying and in the middle was someone she knew all to well.

_Paolo!_

She almost spoke his name out loud but she was trained to remain poker faced in hostage situations.

Paolo was shirtless, showing evidence of vicious beatings. He was positioned on his knees with his arms tied up over his head. And then the Russian woman came into view with something that looked like a baton in her hands. She took a swing, belting him hard across the head. The crack of wood against skull was sickening. Samantha bit her tongue, trying maintain composure. The beating continued, the sound of contact and Paolo's grunts of pain were eating at her. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose. Abramovich could easily kill him with blows to the head like that. And so Samantha caved.

"Alright," she said, "What do you want me to do?"


	3. Get Sherlock

_**Author's note: I did want this to be longer but I'm incredibly busy of late, so I was torn between churning out a short chapter or leaving you guys hanging for a long time. Don't know when I'll get the chance to write again =/**_

"I want to see him," she demanded. She was standing now, her face but a pencil's breadth from his own, having stepped in his way before he could leave the cell. She glared at him, her green eyes fixed with an assertion Moriarty was all too familiar with.

"No," he replied, "Not until we talk first."

Samantha sighed heavily, her eyes glistening. She was angry. Good.

Moriarty didn't like it when something was out of his control. Samantha was definitely one of those people he had no leverage on…until now. It was Nika who spotted Samantha and Paolo together. This was after Moriarty's last encounter with her, when she left with a gun to his head and a promise on her lips. Back then he had no leverage. She was a vagrant and an agent of an organisation so obscure not even _he _knew where to start looking for it. But then Nika discovered Paolo, the woman's mentor, the only person in her life that mattered to her. With that man in chains Moriarty knew he could keep Samantha in check, because right now he needed her.

"We should go upstairs," he said, "This cell is making me claustrophobic."

Moriarty had taken residence in a small abandoned mental asylum. While he had much of the upper floors refurbished to his liking, the basement remained relatively untouched, apart from the padding being removed from the cells.

"Wouldn't want any of our enemies feeling too comfortable down here," he had told one of his clients during refurbishment.

He brought Samantha up to what was once the staff lounge. It was still technically a lounge, he reckoned, but it had a small fitted kitchen on one side of the room. He offered Samantha a seat on the charcoal-grey Portobello sofa while he boiled the kettle.

"A fitting environment for someone like you," the woman spoke from where she was sitting.

"Oh, I get it, because you think I'm crazy. Ha, ha," Moriarty drawled sarcastically.

"You're beyond crazy," she said with some assurance.

He took that as a compliment. He brewed a mug of tea and buttered a couple of slices of bread. He brought the food over to the sofa and presented it in front of Samantha.

"It'll help settle your stomach," he said, aware of the after effects of the drug Nika had dosed her with.

"Gee, thanks! What's this one laced with?" she asked, eyeing the tea sceptically.

Moriarty smiled. She really hadn't changed a bit.

He sat next to her, stretching his legs out in front of him and resting his arms on the back of the sofa.

"He's still in London," he said, pushing aside any desire for pleasantries.

Samantha's brow furrowed as she nibbled her bread tentatively.

"Sherlock?" she questioned, "Are you sure?"  
"Not many places a dead man can go," he responded poignantly, "He's hiding. He doesn't want to be in the limelight for whatever reason, but if I know Sherlock he'll want to stay close to his friends."

"I'd rather not show my face in London again," Samantha stated, "If you recall I was wanted for murder at one stage. And while the agency have removed my files from the record, people will probably still recognise me."

Moriarty studied her for a moment.

"Well," he said thoughtfully, and scooting closer he clasped her dark hair either side of her face with his fingers and slid them down as far as her chin so that her hair looked shorter, "We could give you a makeover."

He noticed the pulse on her neck was racing. His touched had apparently stirred something in her. He leaned a little closer, inhaling subtly through his nose. She still wore the same perfume. It was faint obviously as she had been out cold for the last twelve hours or so, but he recognised it nonetheless. And there was something else - her own scent - one that brought him memories of his time spent with her between the sheets. Before he could linger on those thoughts any longer he sat back again and returned to business.

"Do what you can," he said, "But I need you to get close to his friends. Sherlock's bound to be nearby."

"You seem so sure," said Samantha.

Of course he was sure. Sherlock was willing to burn for his friends. He was still alive and he sure as hell didn't stray too far from home.

"Can I see Paolo now?" She was asking rather than demanding this time, and this brought a faint smile to Moriarty's lips.


	4. The Objective

_**Author's note: I found a picture of a model on the internet which I thought sort of looked like my OC, so I messed around with it a bit to make it the cover pic for this story. What do you think?**_

Moriarty insisted that Samantha should finish eating before allowing her to see Paolo. Random acts of kindness were one of many of his bizarre traits, but Samantha figured that any action Moriarty made, no matter how seemingly inconsequential, was made only to benefit himself in some way. After all, he did go through the effort of kidnapping her and the only person she had ever considered family. Her heart ached when the image of her mentor chained and beaten flashed in her mind.

"If you know Sherlock is alive," she said, trying dispel her upsetting thoughts, "why haven't you killed his friends like you initially promised?"

"Oh I've tried," Moriarty replied, suddenly animated as if afflicted by some injustice, "The bastard has some means of protecting them. And if that wasn't bad enough, half the clients I sent looking for him are either dead or missing."

"So what, you need me because I'm more disposable?" Samantha said accusingly.

Moriarty glowered at her.

"I need you because you don't exist," he responded quietly, "Sherlock will have no way of tracing you back to me. You have no records. You're the perfect tabula rasa."

Samantha gave a snort.

"I haven't missed you one bit," she said, finishing the last of her bread.

"You think I had any desire to see you again?" His tone of voice caused her to look up. "I wanted you dead. I still do, but it so happens that I need you."

Samantha hesitated, sensing the danger in his words.

"How do I know you won't kill me after I help you?" she asked tenuously.

"You don't. But I can guarantee the only reason I have for killing your friend is if you don't cooperate."

She understood. She knew Moriarty never killed just for the sake of killing. He couldn't care less about Paolo either way but he had every reason to kill Samantha.

He stood suddenly, extending one hand towards her.

"Visiting hours are now open," he said, contrastingly cheery, "Shall we?"

Samantha placed her cup and plate on the coffee table and stood alongside him, refusing to take his hand. His arm dropped back to his side and he turned on his heels marching forward toward the basement entrance.

Paolo's cell was only a few doors down from Samantha's and was manned by that despicable Russian woman. Samantha glared at her, her hatred for Moriarty's pet swelling in her chest. Abramovich responded with a cruel smile and unlocked the cell door, moving away to give access. Samantha stepped inside, observing Paolo for a moment. He was still chained with his arms up and his head hung between his shoulders. She had never seen him without out any fight in him. The Russian must have worked him over pretty badly. She knelt before him, clutching his face between her hands and raising is head towards hers. Much of his face was purple and swollen. He stank of stale sweat and his blond hair was crusted in blood.

"Paolo?" she whispered, a sadness washing over her.

A barely audible moan sounded from his throat. His head felt heavy in her hands as if his neck couldn't support it.

"Paolo, it's me. What happened to you? How did you get here?"

Another moan and then forcibly through a hoarse whisper he spoke, "Sam." He seemed to go limp then as if saying her name had exerted all of his energy at once. Samantha bit her lip. Seeing him in this state broke her heart. She hated Moriarty for putting him through this when his only crime was being close to her. She was angry now. She needed to take control of this situation. She stood, turning towards the door where Moriarty was standing and lunged for him. Her movement was cut short by Abramovich who stabbed her in the throat with outstretched fingers. Samantha gagged with the shock and the pain, clutching her throat protectively. Her disorientation had caused her to drop her guard, allowing the Russian to lock her in position from behind, pulling her hair back to expose her neck.

"I really don't want us to fight," said Moriarty, unfurling a roll of material he had produced from his pocket. Inside were a row of syringes individually tucked into long, narrow sleeves. He took one syringe which was filled with a clear liquid and popped the cap off the needle.

"No," Samantha croaked, pulling fruitlessly away from the Russian's grasp. She didn't want to be put under again, not when she had just started to recover from the effects of the last drug. Abramovich's grip tightened.

"I don't hold it against you really," he continued, testing the syringe, "But I do need you to behave while you're here with us. And I do recall that you have a penchant for escaping on me."

"No!" Samantha cried, squirming as hard as she could within the woman's clutches. She felt a sting in the side of her neck as Moriarty leaned in and injected the substance into her vein. He continued talking but his words seemed distance. The drug seemed to kick in almost instantly and the last thing Samantha remembered was a wave of light-headedness wash over her.

She found herself on a cot when she woke, lying between a pillow and a duvet. She bolted upright as a surge of nausea hit her. Spying a metal waste basket across the room she made a dash for it and hurled what little contents were in her stomach. She reckoned this to be a side effect of the drug that was injected into her. She gagged and coughed, her stomach contracting in painful spasms when there was nothing left to throw up. Trembling, she sat on the edge of the cot and sipped at the glass of water that had been left on the bedside locker. She had to get out of here.

Looking around, she noticed a single window on one side of the room. It was dark outside but that told her nothing of the time. It could have been six in the evening or six in the morning for all she knew. The window was shielded by heavy metal bars eradicating any hope of an easy escape. She tried for the door instead which was surprisingly left unlocked. Much to her dismay, however, she found herself facing Abramovich who was carrying and automatic rifle.

"Can I help you?" the Russian asked flatly.

She could have rushed her, taken her gun and made a run for it…but she was still trembling, her knees buckling under her weight, there was not much chance of getting away in one piece.

"I was just looking to talk to Moriarty," she replied dejectedly.

"Not until morning."

Samantha was expecting her to elaborate but when she didn't say anything else she just nodded and closed the door again. She slid to the ground with a sigh. So it was night apparently, not that it mattered. Time really didn't hold much relevance to her right now. That all to familiar feeling of defeat at the hands of Moriarty was sinking in all over again. She thought of Paolo and the conditions he was living in. It made her feel guilty about having somewhere warm and comfortable to sleep in despite what she had been put through. She crawled to the middle of the floor and lay on her back, staring at the ceiling until sleep eventually came to her.

A familiar sting in her neck woke her. She opened her eyes to see Moriarty standing over her with a needle in one hand. She bolted up, clamping one hand on her neck.

"What did you inject me with this time?" she cried.

"Oh relax," he replied patronizingly, "It will help flush the toxins out of your system. You'll feel better in no time."

Samantha noted that the waste basket and bed clothes had been taken away. How long had Moriarty been in this room unnoticed by her? The thought made her shudder.

"I need you to take a leave of absence from your work," Moriarty said as he dropped a manila folder in front of her.

Samantha glanced sceptically at Moriarty as she grabbed the folder and flicked through it. The documents within were similar to a mission briefing and there were also fake identification templates ready to be forged.

"We'll have you scrubbed up, give you a hair cut and get you on the first plane to London. I'll be observing your progress and will be in touch with objective updates."

Samantha gave a huff of amusement.

"You sound like my boss," she said, leafing through the documents.

Moriarty crouched to her level and she met his penetrating gaze.

"I am your boss," he said, "Our contract is verbal and your payment will be your friend's life spared."

"And I thought my other boss was a dick," she muttered. She paused as she found a photo of a familiar fair-haired man. "Is this-?"

"John Watson," Moriarty finished for her, "I need you to stay close to him while you're in London. I have a feeling he's got a guardian angel out there, and if he does I'm pretty sure that angel will lead me straight to Sherlock."

"How am I supposed to do that?" Samantha drawled in mild annoyance.

"It shouldn't be too difficult considering you've already paid a deposit for a flat on Baker Street."

"Ah," she said pulling up a photo of the flat block in question.

"Home, sweet home," Moriarty sang.


	5. Baker Street Blues

_**Author's note: Another quickie. I also borrowed an element from the Sherlock films ;) There'll be more Samantha/Moriarty moments later in the story for those of you impatient for more. Hope you're all enjoying the story so far.**_

One day at a time. This had been the mantra John Watson repeated to himself every morning since the funeral of Sherlock Holmes. Almost a year had passed and he still needed it like he still needed Baker Street. His therapist had advised him to move out of the flat he had shared with his now deceased friend. He told her that he stayed for Mrs. Hudson who had been equally saddened by Sherlock's departure. He tried to convince himself that this was the truth but it wasn't long before he admitted that he just didn't want to let go. He had been meaning to redecorate the flat - new carpet, new wallpaper, new furniture - but everything from Sherlock's violin to the bullet holes in the wall prevented him from doing so. The familiarity of the flat brought both pain and comfort, but also stood as a commemoration to his old friend. It was out of respect that Watson preserved 221B.

A jaunty knock on the door snapped him out of his gloom.

"Your new neighbour is here, John!"

It was Mrs. Hudson. She had always been meaning to do up the flat next door so she could rent it out to someone. Since Sherlock died, she had a perfect excuse to distract herself from mourning. In fact, her mood had elevated since she found a new tenant for Baker Street.

Watson made his way across the room and opened the door. A beaming Mrs. Hudson stood before him accompanied by a red-haired young woman.

"I really thought I'd introduce the two of you since it's been so long since we've had a new resident," Mrs. Hudson said cheerily.

"Ah," Watson chimed, putting on a smile and extending one hand, "John Watson. Pleasure to meet you."

"Samantha Cole," the woman replied, taking Watson's hand with an amiable shake.

Watson couldn't shake the feeling that he had seen Samantha somewhere before. Her hair, dyed a deep shade of red, just about reached her shoulders and was teased outwards towards the ends. Wide green eyes gazed from behind thin framed glasses and her plump lips were coloured a deep red to match her hair. She wore a forest green military jacket and carried a campers' backpack almost the size of herself. She seemed familiar but if he had seen her before the memory wasn't coming to him.

At that moment, Watson's tan and white bulldog waddled over and snuffled the new neighbour's shoes with inspection.

"Gladstone!" Watson scolded. The dog gave a short _woof _of approval, seemingly content with the identity of the stranger at the door, and waddled back inside the room. Gladstone was rescued from the pound. Watson's therapist recommended a pet to help him find comfort in the lonely flat. Gladstone wasn't the smartest animal Watson had ever come across but he was friendly and so he appreciated the jowly canine's company.

"Sorry about that," he said, "I hope you like dogs."

"I don't mind them at all," Samantha replied with a smile, "He seems lovely."

Her accent was hard to place. Her skin colour was indicative of either an Asian or Middle Eastern heritage but her accent was distinctly European - though what region was not all that clear to him.

"Would you like a hand moving your belongings?" Watson asked, trying to be welcoming.

"Oh. No, you're fine, thanks." Samantha thumbed towards her backpack. "This is all have."

"Really?"

Watson wished he hadn't pried just then as the woman's expression turned distinctly uncomfortable.

"Yes," she said, evidently forcing a smile, "Starting a new life and all that."

It was then that he noticed the bruising on her neck. It was faint - in the process of healing - but he noticed nonetheless. Had she come from an abusive background?

Having lived with Sherlock, Watson had managed to pick up his habits of deducing everything. Sometimes this was a bad thing, and for once he was grateful Sherlock wasn't here at this moment as he would have unravelled the woman's entire history in the space of a minute right in front of her. His behaviour often made social events extremely awkward for everyone.

"Well it was nice to meet you," said Watson, eager to wrap things up, "If you feel up to it you can pop over anytime for tea and a chat."

"Thank you. That would be nice."

"Great!" He addressed Mrs. Hudson then, "I'm working shortly. Would you mind feeding Gladstone while I'm out?"

"Of course not, dear. I'm not going to let the poor pup starve," she chuckled.

Watson had initially been anxious about Mrs. Hudson's reaction to Gladstone but fortunately she fell in love with the pooch the first day she met him.

"Right," Mrs. Hudson said to Samantha, "Let's get you moved in."

With a few awkward goodbyes, Mrs. Hudson and Samantha retreated to 221C.


	6. Who Might be Watching

221C was cold and dreary. It hadn't been occupied in a very long time, and due to the fact that it was a basement flat, very little light made its way in. In spite of this, everything appeared newly refurbished. Mrs. Hudson had put a lot of effort into making the place look homely. Beneath the smell of fresh paint, there was a linger of dampness in the air. Samantha had politely pointed this out but Mrs. Hudson insisted that the flat had been completely damp proofed and that all it needed was a new occupant to work out the old must from the atmosphere. Of course Samantha wasn't really in the position to negotiate her living conditions but the landlady promised to send someone if anything needed fixing.

Samantha never really had the need for many possessions so unpacking didn't take very long. In fact she was somewhat amused that she managed to fit everything she owned into one wardrobe. There were two bedrooms, one single and one double bedroom-en suite, the latter of which she decided to sleep in. The sitting room was comfortable and spacious while the kitchen was cramped in comparison. Baker Street was a far cry from the luxurious hotels she was used to while working, but maybe change wasn't a bad thing.

It was when she was fully settled that evening with nothing to do, that the weight of her situation bore down on her. She was once again under Moriarty's thumb with no one else to turn to. She couldn't help but feel guilty about Paolo who didn't deserve any of the abuse Moriarty had put him through. She also felt powerless to save him unless she obeyed Moriarty. This was not a position she expected to find herself in after the events of last year and she was at a complete loss as to what to do. Should she report Paolo to the agency as being held hostage? Would Moriarty find out in time enough to kill him? She was walking on thin ice and she knew she had to be patient before any ray of hope shone through.

Patience was never Samantha's virtue. For the first week after her move, she was having difficulty pinning down Watson. He worked in the clinic of a local hospital and needed to fill contrary hours in replacement of two staff members - one on annual leave, and the other who was sick. Watson slept for most of the day and was never available for very long before he had to run off to work again. Samantha's frustration grew with her urgency to save Paolo. But even if she did get into a room alone with Watson, what would she say? How would she get close to him as Moriarty had suggested? She knew nothing about him other than that he was close to Sherlock and had fallen into depression after his friend's suicide. None of this made for a particularly good conversation starter.

All of these thoughts buzzed in her mind as she was making her way home from grocery shopping. She found it odd having to do normal things like collect groceries and the like. Chasing bad guys for a living never really made much room for the mundane. She struggled with things like finding her way around a supermarket, and part of the uneasiness she felt since she moved to London was probably due to her not fitting in very well as a civilian.

"Spare change, love?" A hooded homeless man obstructed her path with a paper cup extended.

"Sorry," Samantha mumbled, pushing past him. She walked briskly, eager to dump the load of shopping she had been dragging across town all day. She picked up her pace, however, when she noticed the shadow of the hooded man following her. She was not in the mood for a mugging today but she wasn't far from her flat and she knew she could make it there before her pursuer could find opportunity. She was walking faster now, taking long strides while she kept an eye on the space between her shadow and his. He remained at a reasonable distance behind her, probably trying to not arouse suspicion, but his pace was steady and purposeful.

Baker Street was now in view and Samantha pulled her keys from her coat pocket as she scurried to the door. The hand holding the paper cup whipped in front of her once more.

"Spare change?"

Samantha turned to her pursuer. His original cockney accent had changed to a soft Irish one. He wasn't a homeless man.

"_What are you doing here?_" she hissed, eyes darting around for who might be watching. Moriarty smirked from beneath his grey hood.

"We need to talk," he said, "inside."

Samantha sighed loudly, jamming the keys in the lock and pushing the door in with her other shoulder.

"Get in before someone sees you," she snapped, irritated by Moriarty's unexpected visit.

"Relax," he said, "Mrs. Hudson is delayed at the bank and Watson will be doing an extra shift this afternoon…something about one of the medical staff suffering from a nasty case of food poisoning." Samantha recognised his expression of mock guilt.

"You didn't," she stated disapprovingly.

"My bad," he sang, shutting the front door behind him.

"This better be good," she sighed, leading him to her flat.

"Oh, no, my dear, you don't get to be mad at me." Moriarty pulled his hood back revealing his dishevelled hair and face. He could easily pass as homeless. "After all," he continued, looking around her flat, "you haven't done a lick of work for me yet." The tone of his voice indicated a thinly veiled threat.

"Not from lack of trying," Samantha retorted as she dropped her shopping on the kitchen table. She began to unpack the grocery bags.

"I suppose I'm being a little unfair," Moriarty admitted, "It seems the good doctor has been preoccupied of late."

"Brilliant observation, Mr. Moriarty," Samantha quipped, filling her cupboard.

"Oh. Are we back to formalities again?" Moriarty said, genuinely despondent, "I liked it better when you called me Jim."

"I'm not in the mood for flirting today," she replied, "What did you want to talk about?"

Moriarty smirked again, reaching into the pocket of his tattered jeans and pulling out a piece of paper.

"What's this?" Samantha asked as he handed it to her.

"Watson's roster for the next two weeks," he replied, digging into her grocery bag and producing a pear, "I pulled a few strings on the medical board and managed to arrange a couple of temps to lighten Watson's load." He took a bite of the fruit and took the liberty of searching through her cupboards.

"By all means, help yourself," Samantha said, annoyed at his audacity.

Moriarty glanced from her, to the cupboard and back again, bearing a funny expression.

"You can't cook," he stated.

"Um…what?"

"There's nothing in here that you can't just microwave or eat raw. Did they not teach you how to cook at spy camp?"

Samantha felt her cheeks burn. No, she couldn't cook, but she never really needed to.

"Are you done?" she snapped. He gave her a wry glance, knowing that he was annoying her. And then it occurred to her. Why was he really here? He could have emailed that roster to her. He usually never was seen in public, why risk being caught with her at all? She thought back to that moment back at the asylum when he touched her hair. The last time he looked at her like that was back when they were…intimate. Did he still lust for her? If so, she could definitely work that to her advantage.

She approached him as he dumped his pear core into the bin.

"So why did you really come to see me?" she asked softly, placing a hand on his shoulder, "Because if I know you, you don't deliver your messages personally. Unless…" She locked eyes with him, inviting him closer. In one swift movement she found herself with her chest to the wall and her arm twisted painfully behind her back.

"You seem to forget your place, my dear," Moriarty murmured, his hot breath on her ear, "You're not special, you never were, and I promised myself I wouldn't kill you until after you bring me Sherlock, but if you try to seduce me again I might not be able to help myself."

"Which one of us are you trying to convince here?" Samantha replied.

Moriarty's silence was her victory. He released her and pulled his hood up again.

"You can see yourself out," she said, rubbing her arm where he had gripped it.

"I have my eyes on you," he replied, heading towards the door, "Oh and one more thing. Watson is the romantic type. Take him out to dinner or something. He'll like that. Lord knows he hasn't gotten any in a while."

He left before Samantha could thing of anything clever to say back.


	7. Therapy

_**Author's note: Very little time to write these days. Sorry guys. Hope you don't give up on me =p**_

"What's on your mind today, John?"

Watson examined his arm rest as if it held the answer to the question. His therapy sessions were less frequent lately. He mostly only came when he needed to. He had good days and he had bad. Today was not a good day.

Watson cleared his throat and stared through the patio doors. It was yet another dreary day in London - dry, but cold and grey. Winter was approaching and all the lovely golden autumn leaves that Watson admired so much had diminished to brown mulch. He glanced back at his therapist, Agatha, who was watching him with expectation.

"It was a rough day at work," he forced through the lump in his throat, "We had a girl - a teenager - she was fifteen, and she had overdosed on painkillers. She had attempted suicide and… I had to be her doctor."

Agatha remained silent, expecting him to continue. That's how these councillors work - they are paid £90 an hour to listen to people talk about their feelings. But Watson wasn't sure how he was feeling right now or why the case with the teenage girl had upset him. He had seen far worse come through A & E on a regular basis. He had actually seen far worse while in the military. Sure, the topic of suicide was an obvious link to Sherlock but it wasn't the tragedy of it all that bothered him, it wasn't _how _he died…it was something much deeper.

"You know, it didn't matter to me if Sherlock were a fake," he said suddenly, "If he was feeling suicidal I should have seen the signs. I _lived _with him, for god sake. I should have seen the signs, I could have helped him." He let out a shuddering sigh and gazed at the wall over Agatha's head. "Anyway, that's what the girl's parents were talking about. They felt guilty that their daughter had driven herself to suicide, that they had no idea what was going on with her. If they had known, they could have given her the help she needed."

Watson sighed again, biting his tongue to fight back threatening tears.

"You are not responsible for Sherlock's actions, John," Agatha said gently, "Whatever was going on in that man's head began festering long, long before he met you. What's important was that you saw good in him when others didn't. You saw past the consulting detective right through to the man he really was. And I know that because that's the kind of person you are. You always see a different side to people."

_Maybe he was faking his other side too_, Watson thought dismally.

"Have you been meeting new people?" Agatha asked, changing the subject sooner than Watson would have liked.

"Not really," he replied, regretfully, "I've been busy at work lately, I've had no time for extra curricular activities."

"John, it's important to have a bit of a social life. Even if it's only for a couple of hours a week. Your dog's company can only be so fulfilling."

Watson nodded tersely. She always brought that topic up. Maybe it was about time Watson did something about it.

"I have a few pamphlets with information about different social societies around your area if you'd like to take a look," his therapist suggested.

Watson nodded again.

"I'd like that," he said, forcing an appreciative smile.

When he arrived back at the flat, Watson was greeted by his amiable bulldog. Gladstone had been sleeping and the drool dangling from his lip was dripping all over Watson's shoes.

"Thanks for that," he said, disgruntled, and the dog woofed gleefully. Watson kicked off the shoes making a mental note to clean them later. He then took to an armchair and leafed through the pamphlets he was given in therapy.

"Bowling," he mused opening up the first pamphlet, and then realising it was in the middle of a kids' arcade centre, dismissed it straight away.

Gladstone joined him as he hopped onto the doctor's lap.

"Yoga," Watson continued, "What do you think, old boy?" he directed the question to Gladstone, "Do you think I need more Zen in my life?" The dog made a puzzled sound in his throat.

"Nah, me neither."

There came a knock on the door. Sighing, Watson shoved the dog from his lap and went to answer. The red haired woman from next door was standing in front of him.

"Hi!" she said, cheerfully.

Watson remembered that he had promised her tea on their first encounter and felt a little embarrassed that he had forgotten.

"Ms. Cole!" he said, surprise in his voice, "Everything alright? What can I do for you?"

"Call me Samantha," she replied, "And I was actually wondering if you had any plans this evening."

"Um…" Watson thought for a moment. His life had been a bit hectic lately with work so he was a bit surprised to find that he was indeed free this evening. "No, no plans."

Samantha's smile broadened.

"Good!" she said, "Since I'm new to the area I thought I'd get to know the place, but I'm in need of a chaperone."

Watson's grey mood began to brighten a little. He glanced at the pamphlets in his hand and then back at Samantha.

"Wait right here," he said, "I just need to grab a pair of shoes."


	8. Dinner with Watson

_**Author's Note: Was gonna write more in this chapter but it didn't really feel right. This was supposed to be a lot more interesting but I'm gonna leave the good stuff till the next chapter since it feels better for me to break it up that way. Hope you like it anyway. If there's anything you'd like to see more of let me know and I'll try fit it in =)**_

Watson was a sweet and endearing man, and every minute in his company left Samantha feeling guilty that she was using him for her own agenda. He didn't speak of Sherlock - though she didn't really expect him to. From what Moriarty had told her, Watson had been rather close with him and opening up to the new neighbour was least likely at this point. She knew she had to bide her time, but she felt that every second that went by was time wasted on not achieving Paolo's freedom. She worried for her dearest friend, pictured him in horrible conditions, her mind only daring to imagine what Moriarty was putting him through. Her heart had been a dead weight in her chest since she reunited with Moriarty and it grew heavier every day.

"What about here?"

Samantha snapped out of her despondent day-dream and realised she had been strolling with Watson for quite a bit now. They were standing outside a small corner bistro with a reasonably priced menu in the window. It wasn't anything too fancy which was just perfect.

"Looks good," she said to the doctor, "After you."

They sat at a small table in a cosy corner of the restaurant. The room was dimly lit, but the atmosphere was relaxed, and the casual residents dissipated any feeling of romance about the place. Samantha was relieved that Watson had taken her on a social outing rather than a date.

The service was swift, and though Watson carried most of the conversation, there was little room for awkward silences.

"So where are you from?" Watson asked, taking a sip of water from his glass.

"Oxford," Samantha replied, her fictional back story rehearsed in her head.

Watson frowned.

"That's odd," he said.

"What is?"

Watson faltered, rolling his fork to indicate that his mouth was full.

"I just meant that I couldn't quite place your accent," he said after a moment.

"Well I'm a bit ethnically mixed," Samantha replied, "In case you hadn't noticed." She chuckled noting that Watson was trying to be polite in not bringing it up.

"My mother grew up in Oxford but she originated from Pakistan." Samantha wasn't in all actuality sure of this. She assumed from her skin colour and features that she had roots there. "My father is Czech but he worked in Oxford for some time which was when he met my mother." She also assumed she was part Czech having been found on the streets of Prague as a child, though she never knew for sure. "So yes, my accent is a bit unusual."

"Well, I wouldn't say unusual," Watson replied, "I think it's quite lovely."

Samantha smiled, once again feeling guilty that she was taking advantage of this charming man.

"And what about you?" she pried, "Tell me a little about yourself."

Watson talked a lot but none of it was of any use to Samantha. He talked about his family, his time in the military, his dog, but not once did he bring up Sherlock or Moriarty. Even when Samantha had asked what he had been doing since he moved to Baker Street he just said he was mostly working.

"I've had enough excitement in the military," he said, "It's nice to be boring sometimes."

Samantha smiled inwardly thinking how completely opposite Watson was to Moriarty.

"Excuse me, Mr. Watson?"

Samantha's attention was now on a young dark-haired woman standing over their table.

"Yes, that's me," Watson replied a little uncertainly.

"I'm Wanda Worthington from the local paper," the woman said, "I'm working on a feature for the anniversary of Mr. Holmes' death, and was wondering if I could get a quote from you."

Watson's face dropped and he glanced nervously from the reporter to Samantha. It then occurred to her that Watson _was _deliberately refusing to speak about Sherlock but only because he was still grieving over his friend's death.

"Do you mind?" Samantha snapped at the woman, "We're trying to have a meal in peace here. Now bugger off before I report you for harassment."

The woman glared at Samantha and then at Watson.

"You heard her," Watson said, "Sod off. Like a pack of vultures, you journos."

The woman straightened and left the bistro without even an apology for her rudeness.

Watson glanced at Samantha, and laughter burst through his wry grin.

"We certainly showed her," he said.

"Do you get that a lot?" Samantha enquired, seeing a chance to bring up Sherlock.

Watson sobered, the mirth in his smile waning.

"I used to, yes" he admitted, "They sort of stopped after a while. This is the first in a long time."

"Do you want to talk about it?"

The overdue awkward silence hung between them. Watson stared at the tea light in the middle of the table, the flame reflecting in his tired eyes and making them glisten.

"I'm sorry," Samantha said quickly, fearing she was pushing him away, "I feel I stepped over a line here and I shouldn't have."

Watson shook his head dismissively as if to say 'Don't worry about it.' And then as if the unpleasantness had never happened he glanced back up at her and said, "How about that tea, Ms. Cole?"


	9. Confessions of a Madman

_**Author's Note: As someone suggested recently I thought I'd ask my readers if there's anything you would like to see happen in this story. Keep in mind I do have an ending planned so anything that clashes with the story won't make the cut I'm afraid. I'm trying to have this finished before season 3 comes out because they would be both set around the same timeline and it might look silly. Anyway, hope you enjoy this chapter =)**_

Upon entering 221B, the first thing that struck Samantha was the décor. There was a strange gothic vibe about the flat, the kind that featured in 1920's horror films. She noted the bullet holes in the walls and could only imagine the kind of things that Watson and Holmes got up to in their day.

"Love what you've done with the place," she said in a mannered tone.

"Oh," Watson waved a hand dismissively, "I've been meaning to redecorate. I just hadn't had the chance. Tea or coffee?" Watson disappeared into the kitchen, the bulldog plodding along behind him.

"Coffee, please," Samantha called back, examining the room more scrupulously now, "Black, one sugar." She noticed a laptop on the table, its power-light throbbing slowly in its standby state.

"I don't have many guests over so I couldn't tell you how old this coffee is," Watson called from the kitchen.

"That's alright." Samantha glanced around the corner to see Watson with his back to her. She carefully opened the laptop until the screen lit up. A website was left open on the laptop: Watson's blog - a series of entries describing the cases that he and Holmes had solved together. It hadn't been updated in a year but it seemed to still be clocking up views. A second tab was open in this window. She glanced towards the kitchen again to make sure Watson was still busy. Samantha opened the tab and scanned through its contents. It seemed to be sort of a conspiracy community site entitled "_We Believe in Sherlock_". There were numerous theories concerning the possible falsity of Sherlock's death and many more claiming that Moriarty wasn't a fabrication. There were illustrated diagrams of St. Bart's hospital and math equations explaining how the detective could have survived the fall.

_Now this is interesting_, Samantha thought.

"Coffee?"

She slammed the laptop shut and spun around. Thankfully Watson was too late to notice that she had been prying.

"Thank you, Mr. Wats-"

"John," he corrected, "Please have a seat."

She sat in the armchair opposite Watson. They made small talk through the evening, though Samantha was mostly thinking about what she had seen in that laptop. The fact that the conspiracy page was left open implied to her that Watson also was seeking another truth to his friend's death. This she could possibly use to her advantage. If Watson had any kind of lead on Sherlock's true whereabouts she could find him sooner than she thought. Right now though she needed to gain Watson's trust and that she knew might not be too easy.

It was midnight when Watson politely suggested that Samantha should leave. She thanked him for his hospitality, pleased that the night ended on a positive note.

"This was nice," said Watson at the door, "We should definitely do it again sometime."

Samantha smiled warmly.

"I'd like that," she said, "And you know where I live. Feel free to pop in any time."

They shook hands and bid each other goodnight before Watson shut the door.

Samantha made her way to her own apartment, new ideas for finding Sherlock Holmes formulating in her mind. As she entered the flat, she slung her handbag on the coat rack and removed her clear glasses. She rubbed the bridge of her nose, unused to wearing the spectacles for so long. She glanced at herself in a mirror and ruffled her bright red hair, still undecided as to whether she liked it or not. Her heart skipped a beat as something in the background of her reflection moved. She swerved to find Moriarty lying on her couch. She sighed angrily and placed a hand on her hip.

"Now really you're just being reckless coming here willy-nilly," she said.

"Oh relax," Moriarty drawled, "I came in through the backdoor. No one saw me."

Samantha paused.

"But this is a basement flat," she said, "There _is _no backdoor."

Moriarty frowned.

"Oh," he replied with half-hearted concern.

"And I can't say I care for you dropping in unannounced," Samantha continued, "You and I need to discuss boundaries if we're going to work together."

In one lazy mechanical movement Moriarty sat up.

"I can't say I care for your tone of voice," he slurred.

She then noticed the merlot bottle on the ground next to him. Picking it up, she saw that it was empty.

"This was a gift from Mrs. Hudson!" she cried, "What the hell is wrong with you? Do you just break into people's homes and drink their wine? Is that one of your self-given liberties as a master criminal?"

He stood then and approached her, standing inches apart from her.

"Shut up," he said flatly, "While you were out I took the _'self-given liberty' _of sweeping your flat for bugs."

Samantha stared blankly at the man.

"Bugs," she stated, "Who on earth would bug my flat?"

He leaned forward, his pupils were small black disks contrasting sharply against the white of his eyes.

"Who indeed?" he whispered with the tone of a man struck by madness. He paced the room with one finger in the air. "_Everyone _I've sent to take care of Mrs. Hudson and Dr. Watson has been picked off within 24 hours, _everyone_…except you." He turned to point his finger at her.

"But that's a good thing," Samantha speculated, "…right?"

"Maybe too much of a good thing," Moriarty muttered, "We've been _too _careful. Can't get to Sherlock if we can't get to his crew." Moriarty started to pace, the same finger now on his lip as if in thought.

"So…what do we do?" Samantha asked.

"Attract attention."

"Isn't that what we were avoiding?"

"It's what _I_ was avoiding," he replied impatiently, "_You _on the other hand-"

"Right, I get it, I'm the bait and you're the fisherman," Samantha sighed.

Moriarty stared at her for a moment as if trying to decide what to do with her.

"We might have to pull up your criminal record."

"What?"

"All my clients, _all _of them, had some sort of record. If anyone looks you up they get the squeaky clean, A-levels girl from Oxford."

"And I'd rather stay that way," Samantha said firmly, "You're not making it easy for me to gain Watson's trust."

Moriarty thrust his arms out, almost losing his balance in his drunken state.

"Have you forgotten what exactly is at stake here?" he cried as if impatient with her incompetence. "Don't you remember that little friend of yours locked up in my basement? Does he suddenly hold no importance to you? Because if that's the case he's of no importance to me and I think you know what that means."

Samantha was quite angry now. She was getting rather sick of all of this.

"Yes, my friend starved and tortured while I'm here living it up in Baker Street," she said, "I'm having difficulty finding the motivation to do your biding knowing he's as much in pain today as he was yesterday."

There was a moment of silence before Moriarty erupted with laughter. Samantha's chest heaved in indignation, her patience for the lunatic wearing thin.

"What is it," Moriarty took one step forward, closing the gap between them, "with you?" And then his mirth seemed to melt away in an instant and he roughly clutched the sides of Samantha's face. "_What is it with you?_" he bellowed as if demanding her to answer. "You're not smart, you're not special. You're as ordinary as they come."

Samantha glared coldly back at him, trying to ignore the twinge at her temples where her hair was caught between his fingers.

"And yet ever since you barged into my life I haven't been able to get you out of my head." His anger seemed to turn to frustration. He glowered accusingly at her. "You're in there," he hissed, tapping the side of his skull with two fingers, "_festering! _And I tried, I _tried _to get rid of you but-" His sentence was cut off by agitated laughter and he stared up at the ceiling as if looking for answers there. "I can't," he said, his tone meek and hopeless now as he touched his forehead to hers. "I _can't_."

There was a moment of silence that seemed like an eternity to Samantha. She stayed perfectly still, as if moving an inch would cause something bad to happen. A loud knock on the door snapped her out of it.

"Ms. Cole?" came Mrs. Hudson's voice, "Is everything alright? May I come in?"

"_Shit!_" Samantha whispered, breaking away from Moriarty and gesturing for him to hide. She heard the rattle of the lock and she sprang for the door before Mrs. Hudson could open it.

"Mrs. Hudson," she said, painting a weak smile on her face, "What can I do for you?"

Mrs. Hudson peered with curious concern through the small opening between the door and its frame. Samantha kept her foot against the door so that she couldn't open it any wider.

"I though I heard a lot of arguing," the old woman said, "Is everything alright?"

"Arguing?" Samantha laughed nervously. _So not a soundproof building_, she added mentally. "No, I think I might have had the TV on too loud. Sorry if I woke you."

"Well, alright, don't let it happen again," said Mrs. Hudson, "I need my beauty sleep, you know."

"Of course. Sorry again. Sleep well."

She waited until Mrs. Hudson was up the stairs before shutting the door. She sighed heavily and glanced around the flat only to realise that Moriarty had disappeared. She sat on the armchair, her nerves racked, her heart beating hard and the confessions of a drunken madman ringing in her head.


	10. Not so Glamorous

_**Author's Note: Thank you to all my readers. You all rock.**_

"You seem happier today, John," Agatha observed from her armchair.

Watson had to think about that one for a moment. Since Sherlock's fall he had gone through a wide range of emotions from anguish to mourning to guilt. After a while those feelings disappeared, but instead of feeling something else he felt nothing. Happiness was something he had grown unfamiliar with, and so after such a long period of feeling nothing he wasn't sure what happiness felt like anymore.

"I feel…different," he struggled to say.

"Good different?"

This he had to think about as well, but he found himself nodding with a smile on his face.

"What changed?" Agatha asked, crossing one leg over the other and clasping her hands together.

"I met someone…sort of," Watson corrected himself, "Well, I have a new neighbour and…we've been hanging out a bit and it's been…it's been good."

"What's your new neighbour like?"

"Um…well, she's nice! She's just nice to talk to - very _easy _to talk to. And being with her is just…easy. There's no drama or anything it's just…you know, normal."

"And this is what you want?"

"Oh, yes," Watson said with some conviction, "Bloody hell, yes. After everything with Sherlock… this is just good for me I think."

"Well, good," said Agatha assuredly, "This is good, John. I'm really happy for you."

Watson nodded, smiling to himself. This was the most positive response Agatha had shown since he started therapy. He felt he was making real progress.

"Do you think I should…you know…trust her?" he then asked a little awkwardly.

Agatha smiled softly and said, "That's entirely up to you, John."

"But if you were in my position what would you do?"

She sighed and seemed to regard Watson thoughtfully.

"I can't make you do anything you don't want to," she said, "But if I were in your position, I'd at least give this woman a chance. You never know. You could have a good thing going here."

Watson nodded again. She had a point. Ever since Sherlock announced that he was a fraud he had had a problem letting people into his life. But Samantha wasn't Sherlock, not even remotely. Sherlock was, as he described himself, a highly functioning sociopath. Samantha was just…normal.

"Maybe you're right," he said, "I should give her a chance. Thanks."

"Anytime, John. Let me know how things go with her."

Nika Abramovich was starting to grow very bored of her current job position. Sure, she appreciated the pay, but having to watch the prisoner 24/7 was beginning to try her patience. She could have been very trigger happy somewhere under someone else's employment. She glared at Moriarty from across the room, half thinking of handing him her resignation. Moriarty, who had not looked up from his laptop all afternoon, gave an angry sigh and said, "Ok, _why _are you looking at me like that?"

"Like what?" she replied, feigning innocence.

"Like a teenager who's life has been ruined because she wasn't allowed go to a party," Moriarty said impatiently.

Nika chuckled and approached Moriarty's desk.

"More like a teenager who has been stuck babysitting an angry Czech man while all the other teenagers get to blow up stuff," she said as she leaned against the desk.

"Oh god, not this again," Moriarty rubbed the bridge of his nose, "Look, I told you exactly what you were in for when you signed up for this. You knew this was going to be a slow operation. Now I have no problem finding someone else to replace you but I highly doubt you will find a better pay cheque than what you have now."

"Just say the word and I will kill whoever you want," she replied, trying to sound reasonable, "It will be like the good old days."  
"No, Nika, not now. I can't risk you getting caught." He had all the composure of a parent trying to work at home while being surrounded by screaming kids. "You're on file with the FSB, CIA, MI-bloody-6," and almost as an afterthought he said, "and for some reason the Yakuza want you dead. Care to explain that one to me?"

"Pfft! The Yakuza," Nika derided, folding her arms, "I can pull a better organized crime ring out of my ass."

"Yes, well do it in your own time," Moriarty said returning to the laptop, "While _I'm_ paying you, you do what I say."

"At least clue me on what you are working on so I can keep up."

Moriarty spun the laptop so that it was facing her. The screen showed several security images of someone's home. Nika raised an eyebrow at him.

"It's Baker Street," he said, "You think I just sit on my hands all day? This is what I've been up to."

"Ah," Nika smiled knowingly, "I take it you and your woman have trust issues?"

"We have a… complicated history," Moriarty grumbled, "But I do need to watch for any and all activity that could lead me to Sherlock."

"Now that sounds boring," Nika remarked.

Moriarty smirked.

"Welcome to the not-so-glamorous side of organized crime." He turned the laptop back to him. "How is our prisoner anyway?"  
"I don't know, I don't speak Czech," Nika sighed as she rounded the desk to sit on the arm of his chair, "But he seems pretty pissed at the best of times."

"He'll be here with us a while," Moriarty said, eyes on the laptop screen, "Maybe it's about time we make him a little more comfortable."

Nika was used to Moriarty's changeable temperament. In fact, it was his unpredictable nature that made working for him so interesting to begin with. But this seemed different - uncharacteristic even. His expression flickered just then. Nika followed his gaze to the screen where the woman Samantha had just entered one of the rooms. She glanced from the screen to Moriarty and back, and suddenly she knew exactly what was going on inside his head.


	11. The Bullet

"I can't believe you dragged me here," Watson muttered, shuffling uncomfortably.  
"I thought you wanted to do something fun together," Samantha teased.  
"Yes but…" he lowered his voice, looking around the room bashfully, "I can't dance."  
Samantha laughed. "Neither can I," she said, "That's why we're here. To learn!"  
"I am going to kill you, you know that?"  
"Oh stop." She shoved him playfully.  
The class took place in a hotel venue that was usually used for live gigs or small weddings. Wednesday night however it was used for dancing lessons. There were about six other couples present, mostly women, and they all stood idly by the venue stage, chatting quietly amongst themselves. It wasn't long before the dance instructor arrived with a CD player. She was a tiny woman in her late 40's, wearing a pink and purple floral dress that clung to her skinny frame. Her brown hair was tied back in a tight bun and she had sharp, scornful looking features.  
"Good evening, class!" she announced in an Argentinean accent, her voice surprisingly loud for her size, "My name is Sofia and I will be teaching you ballroom dancing for the next few weeks. Now if everyone can partner up, we'll begin by learning some simple box steps."  
"Bloody hell, she doesn't waste time," Watson whispered. Samantha, however, was a little distracted by the vibration in her pocket. She slid her phone out just enough to be able to see the caller ID but the number was blocked. It was either Moriarty or work, and right now she couldn't decide which was worse.  
"I have to take this," she said apologetically.  
"It's ok," Watson replied, "I'll catch you up when you get back."  
Samantha smiled a thanks and rushed out to the empty hallway outside.  
"Hello?" she answered.  
"Hello, agent," an American man replied on the other end.  
Samantha rolled her eyes, knowing this conversation would not end well.  
"What can I help you with, sir?" she said politely.  
"An agent is missing, last seen leaving Syria. He failed to report his last mission which raised concern. We have a team searching parts of Europe but nothing has turned up."  
"Why do you need me? I'm on leave, remember?" Samantha knew exactly what was going on but she needed to act innocent.  
"He is your mentor, agent. As I understand you two are rather close. We were wondering if you had any idea what had happened to him or where he could have gone."  
"I honestly have no idea," Samantha replied, anxiety seeping into her veins, "I haven't seen him since he was sent for me that time…well, you know…"  
There was silence on the other end. She was concerned that she was a suspected accomplice in Paolo's disappearance, and her request for time off might have roused those suspicions.  
"When do you think you'll be back to work, agent?" the voice asked.  
"I'm not sure," she replied honestly, "I want to see how I am without therapy or retraining but I don't know how long that will take."  
"You do realise you're using up all your vacation days for the year?"  
"I know. I'll be back as soon as I can, I promise."  
"See that you do."  
"Oh and…" Samantha added in her bid to appear genuinely concerned, "let me know if you find Paolo."  
"Will do. Take care, agent."  
Samantha could hear music playing from the ballroom and she rushed back to rejoin the group. Watson was standing idly by himself while the others danced to a Latin beat.  
"Sorry about that," she said.  
"It's alright," Watson replied and he held out a hand, "Shall we?"  
Samantha smiled, pushing aside for now her troubling phone call.  
"So what have we learned?" she said, taking his hand.  
"Right," he replied, a look of concentration on his face. He lifted their clasped hands so that they remained at head height while placing his other hand on Samantha's waist.  
He glanced around the room at the other dancers.  
"Ok, so it's left foot forward," he said.  
She extended her left foot and accidentally kicked him in the shin.  
"Ouch!" Watson cried, "No, my left. You move your right foot back."  
"Right, sorry," Samantha chuckled, starting to feel giddy.  
They stepped awkwardly in unison before Watson stopped to look around again.  
"And then it's…" He stepped to the side slightly. Samantha wasn't sure what happened just then but while trying to mirror his movement, something caused her to lose balance and they both tumbled to the ground. The dance instructor was not impressed and clapped irately at the two of them.  
"Come now," she snapped, "Let me demonstrate." Samantha and Watson exchanged awkward glances as they picked themselves up from the floor. Sofia then took to Samantha as she used her to show how to lead the dance.  
"The box step is simple!" the instructor declared, "Long step, short-short, long step!"  
Samantha was surprised at how well the small woman could lead and she found herself moving along with her easily.  
"Now you try," Sofia demanded as she offered Samantha back to Watson.  
"Um…ok," Watson sighed as he assumed position.  
"Long step, short-short, long step!"  
Watson followed the woman's instruction carefully.  
"I think you're getting the hang of it," Samantha said, following his steps.  
"You're not bad yourself," he replied.  
"Good!" Sofia acclaimed, "And don't forget, this is the rumba!" She clasped onto either side of Watson's waist from behind. "Remember to roll your hips!"  
"Alright, I get the idea!" a flustered Watson cried, blushing at the woman's inappropriate interaction.  
Samantha bit her lip trying not to laugh.  
"Well at least you're having fun," Watson grumbled.  
"Buckets," she replied grinning widely.

After many awkward bumps and falls the class was finally over. Samantha's side hurt from laughing so much, much to the disdain of the dance teacher.  
They had both worked up a bit of a sweat and the cool night air felt rather refreshing.  
"So," said Samantha as they walked down the street together, "Same time next week?"  
Watson seemed to consider this for a moment before they both in unison said, "Nah…"  
They stopped in chipper on the way home and each bought a bag of chips. The warmth of the brown paper bag was comforting and Samantha took a moment to warm her hands before eating.  
"My god!" Watson cried, half-coughing, "That smells positively toxic!"  
"I like my vinegar," Samantha winked, popping a deliciously bitter chip into her mouth.  
"That can't be healthy," he replied.  
"I'm still alive aren't I?"  
Watson regarded her for a moment with a gentle smile on his face.  
"There's one more place I'd like to go before we head home," he said, "Want to come?"  
"Sure!" Samantha replied, "I'm always up for adventure."  
She followed Watson through a short detour until she found herself walking through a graveyard.  
"A little early for Halloween shenanigans isn't it?" she asked cautiously.  
They seemed to be alone in the poorly lit cemetery, and while she trusted Watson she didn't trust Moriarty and the feeling of vulnerability crept up her spine.  
"It's nothing like that," Watson assured and he stopped before one particular gravestone. He nodded to Samantha to take a look. She eyed him with mock suspicion as she crouched down to read the headstone. Her body tensed.  
"Sherlock Holmes," she said as flatly and unassuming as she could.  
"He was my friend," said Watson, his voice audibly wavering with emotion now, "He shared the flat with me when he was alive. I visit his grave most nights but I hadn't had much time lately. Hope you don't mind my paying respects."  
"Not at all." Samantha stood straight again, staring at the headstone before her. A pang of guilt struck her, knowing that there were no remains for Watson to pay any respect to. The closer she grew to him, the harder it was for her to want to carry out Moriarty's plans. She was conflicted. Save Paolo from Moriarty? Or save Watson from her inevitable betrayal? Either way she had an almighty bullet to bite and she had to face the music sooner or later.  
"John," she said dejectedly, staring hard at the gravestone, "I have a confession to make."


End file.
